


Small Victories

by crescentmoonthemage



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Q is a Holmes, This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things, q is oblivious
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-06
Updated: 2015-05-06
Packaged: 2018-03-29 06:29:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3885877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crescentmoonthemage/pseuds/crescentmoonthemage
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Now that he thinks about it, Q’s job description was rather vague. When he had first applied for the job, the description had stated something like: Director of Technology and Communications. Must be able to work long hours and use complicated technology. It hadn’t stated anything like Snarkmaster Wanted, or Insufferable Sarcastic Asshole Needed or anything like that. So then why did he do it? These days, being sarcastic or clever or any of snarky came more easily than the rest of his job.</p>
<p>But, he muses, only around Bond.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Small Victories

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [小小勝利/Small Victories](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4111972) by [danacathsu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/danacathsu/pseuds/danacathsu)



> Hey guys! This is the first thing I've written in a while, and I'm actually kind of proud of it! Hope you enjoy! 
> 
> \--CM

****  
  


It was a chilly night in January. Not that Q felt it, of course, being locked in a basement. Well, he wasn’t exactly locked in. I mean, it was completely voluntary. And the door wasn’t even locked. But he pretended like it was so he didn’t have to leave. I mean, who would want to leave? Q Branch was a haven for those like him, those who run on excess caffeine, little to no sleep, and technology. Oh, the technology. Q almost felt like he was turning into one of the robots that he had built and stored (secretly, of course) in the testing vault.

He had been there since 6:30 in the morning the day before, and he was sure that it was only about midnight. But, checking his watch, he found that his sense of time was drastically off, like usual, and it was nearing three A:M. He sighed, spinning in his chair and putting a kettle on the Bunsen burner in the corner.

Q Branch had been positively boring lately. Usually there was excitement, what with new things to test and tea to drink and Q’s agents running rampant across the globe on various missions, but this week had been rather dull. It had started off exciting, another comm-linked sesh with 007 where he could listen to snark and gunshots, and heavy breathing for hours on end without getting a word in edgewise. But then, 007 had told him to tune into the Baghdad CCTV cam (since when was Bond in Baghdad? His mission was in Belize, for heaven’s sake) and all Q had seen was a piece of paper taped onto an alley wall.

Dropping the com, was all it read. And Bond had stayed true to his word; Q had heard nothing more of his agent for days on end. He kept himself busy by doing pointless things, and no he wasn’t worrying, not one bit, he just didn’t want to wake up and find another obituary in his e-mail inbox.

Q didn’t want to worry, worrying created unnecessary lines on his face. Honestly, if he had a choice, Q would choose not to feel at all. Worry was pointless, sadness was depressing, and love was… well, Q thought that love just hurt. It was painful and stressful and he didn’t want anything to do with it.

So he kept telling himself as he made tea in a dark corner, designs for guns and computer programs and an invisible Aston Martin just because Bond had wanted one a few weeks earlier were flashing through his mind like he was experiencing a seizure. In fact, he was so wrapped up in his inner thoughts that when he picked up the steaming tea and turned around to walk back to his cozily lit work station, he nearly walked into someone.

“Sorry,” he says, automatically, stepping back and raising his mug to his lips. His thoughts immediately engulfed his brain once more, and he stood for a moment.  When he actually realized that there was someone else in his lab at three in the morning, he nearly dropped his mug in shock. Looking up, past the tattered suit and the bloody shoulder and everything else, Q finally met the icy blue eyes of 007.

“Bond,” he says, cautiously.

Bond looks amused. “Took you long enough, Q.”

“You dropped the com. On purpose.”

“Perceptive as always, I see.” replies 007, looking terribly smug. He reached in his pocket and proffered something to Q.  “I brought you a present.”

The Quartermaster blinks in surprise. “You actually brought your gun back.”  
  


“I think it’s broken,” says 007.

“Small victories,” quips Q. “Take them when you get them.” He took the gun from Bond and walked over to his worktable, setting it down. He examined it, and looked back at his agent in mock surprise. “This gun was melted.”

“Yes,” says Bond, matter-of-factly.

“You were working on a cruise ship! In Belize! And then suddenly, you end up in South America and you probably killed half a city along the way! Then you go to Baghdad! Bond, we can’t be a team if I can’t give you advice!”

“We’re not a team,” says Bond. “I do the heavy lifting, and sure I may enjoy your snark sometimes, but you don’t help me at all! I did the missions just fine before you came into MI6!”

Q’s eyes widen. He steps back, turns around. His eyes were watering for some strange reason, and he steels himself, praying his voice wouldn’t crack. “Then why are you here?” he asks.

“I thought you’d appreciate the gun,” came the low voice.

“It’s not even salvageable,” says Q, quietly. He heard a shuffling of feet, and when he turned around, Bond was gone. Sinking into his desk chair, Q buries his head in his hands and sighs, sadly.

………..

Bond didn’t come into Q Branch until his next mission, and even then, the silence was tense. Q had gotten another gun for Bond, to replace the one he had melted, (???) another com, and a small bottle of liquid Strychnine (for more elegant killing.) He presented these items to Bond without flourish, and without witty comments. The whole time he was turned toward his work table, he could feel the cold gaze of 007 on him, penetrating him and going out the other side. When he had given all of the items to Bond, the agent stalked out. Q sighs, turning to his computer, when he noticed something.

Bond had left the com on his desk.

“Oh, screw you, 007,” Q says,  putting the com in his pocket and stalking out.

…………..

Bond didn’t bother to bring any of his equipment back from the next mission. It was nearly eight at night when Bond came sauntering into Q Branch, gave a smile to Q, and promptly collapsed on the floor.  Q goes over to find the bloody agent unconscious, bleeding from what appeared to be a stab wound in his shoulder. “Jesus, Bond,” he says, hauling the agent onto his shoulder. Bond cracked an eye open. “What’r you gonna do, Q?” he asks.

 

“Stitch you up,” Q replies. “I did go through basic medical, you know.” Bond laughs. “You, medical?” he asked. Q smiles, dumping Bond rather unceremoniously into his desk chair. “What else could my nimble typing fingers do besides stitching?” he says, grabbing the medical needle and thread that he keeps in his desk drawer.

 

“I know what you could do with your fingers,” says Bond, a wicked smile on his haggard face. Q stares at him. “I’m going to ignore that little quip, as long as you just keep talking. Keep talking for me.” Bond looks at him blankly. “About what?”

 

“Anything,” Q replies. “This is going to hurt, so I don’t want you to go under. If you do, I might not see you again.” Bond nods, as if sleepily. Q knows the signs. “What’s your favorite color?” he asks, inserting the needle into Bond’s skin. 007 gives a hiss of pain, and then responds, tightly: “Green. And yours?”

“Red,” Q replies beginning to stitch. “What’s your favorite food?”

Bond stares at him for a moment. “Filet Mignon,” he replies. “With potatoes.”  Q smiles. “That’s too fancy for me. I like… chocolate, tea, and I have something for cheeseburgers.” This makes 007 smile, and Q’s heart begin to race. “Uh, what’s your favorite place in the world?” he asks, knowing the answer is going to be something like this tiny town in Tahiti that I’ve never heard of, or this dive bar in Moscow, or something like that, but instead, Bond simply says: “Here.”

Q quirks an eyebrow. “Why?” he asks, curious. Bond stares at him oddly, and says, in a voice muffled with sleep: “Because that’s where you are. And I like you.” This makes Q smile and blush, he’s not sure why, and he gently tugs the needle from Bond’s skin, severing the string and saying: “Okay, 007, you can sleep now. I’ve just got to wrap your shoulder. And as soon as the sun rises, it’s off to Medical with you.” Bond smiles sleepily, and closed his eyes, out in moments. Q gently wraps gauze around the shoulder, and then puts his own cardigan over Bond to keep him warm. After all, it wasn’t like Q was cold. He just had a lot of work to do before morning.

……….

Q wants to speak to Bond of that night, but he never gets the chance. Bond’s still in remission (how did he get stabbed, anyway?)and Q doesn’t see him. He’s too busy keeping Alec Trevalyen out of firefights and all the rest of the double-ohs’ from dying. It’s nearly a month later, when he’s comm-linked with 005 and trying to help her find the right way through an abandoned building, that Bond finally comes in. Q at first doesn’t notice him, he’s too busy giving directions to 005, but finally, a few minutes later, one of his minions, Mariela, comes up to him and says: “Sir, there’s someone here who wants to see you.” Q speaks to 005 for a moment more, before putting down the comm. “Send them in,” Q says, and waits for Mariela to walk away, but she still is standing before him. “Sir, he’s right behind you.”

Q turns around and almost shrieks, and 007, who was standing very close (personal space, Bond, really?) smirks. Q collects himself, saying: “Bond. Fancy seeing you here.” Bond smiles, and hands Q a folder. “I’m leaving to Indonesia tomorrow. Think you can get me a gun or something by then?”

Q smiles. “Of course, Bond. But only if you promise to bring it back.”

007 grins. “Then I’d be in the middle of a shoot-out with no weapon and it’d be your fault. And do you happen to have a rocket launcher?”

“No,” Q says, firmly, but he’s already thought up plans for one.

……….

The very next day, Bond comes in again, looking smug. “Hello, Q,” he says. “Morning, Bond,” Q replies, taking a sip of his tea. He gestures to the items laid out on his workstation. “Gun, radio, and the key to a car waiting in Indonesia for you.”

 

Bond grins. “Does it have a rocket launcher?” he asks.

Q shrugs. “A small one.”

Bond’s smile makes Q’s heart melt.

…………..

That night, there’s a crackle in Q’s comm, which he had turned on though he just knew that Bond wouldn’t use it. Bond hadn’t forgotten,it, though, which Q took to be a good sign.

Bond’s voice comes through. “Q, I love the car,” he says, and this makes Q smile. “Hopefully you haven’t killed anyone yet,” he replies. “There’s an instruction manual, so please read it before you press anything. You might self-destruct the car,” he says. He hears James’s breathless laughter. “You labeled it, Q. I know which button it is.”

“Very good point,” replies Q. “Wouldn’t want you dying on me.”

“Who doesn’t want me dying?” asks Bond, and Q thinks he can hear just a touch of that clever smirk that Bond seems to be wearing more and more often.

“M would have my have my head if you died on my watch. And Alec seems to have a soft spot for you, though I don’t know why,” Q replies easily.

“You said you, Q.” says Bond. “Beg pardon?” asks the quartermaster. Bond chuckles. “You said that you wouldn’t want me dying on you. I didn’t think you’d care if I died.”

Q suddenly feels very red and is glad that there’s no one around to see him. “Well,” he says, carefully. “My job would be a lot less interesting, now wouldn’t it?” Bond chuckles again, a crackling sound over the radio that makes Q smile. “You’d just have to find someone else to bother.” says Bond.

“What, I’m not allowed to vicariously live through you any more?” asks Q. “It was just getting fun.”

That really makes Bond laugh, a large, hearty sound, and Q laughs along with him. They sit like that for a moment, Q reveling in the small victories that sometimes come with no warning.

After a moment of silence, through which Q can hear Bond shift gears in the custom car Q had built, Bond speaks again. “What time is it, Q?” he asks. Q honestly isn’t sure, but after a moment, he replies “1:30 in the morning.”

007 makes a sound. “Get some sleep, Q. I can handle myself one night.”

Q sighs. He tries to say: “I’m not tired”, but it comes out as a yawn. He realizes, in some dim corner of his mind, that tomorrow is his day off. Not that he actually takes days off, of course. He hears the low laughter of 007 through the com, and yawns again. “Are you sure?” he asks. “I can make a cup of tea or something.”

“Go to bed, Q. That’s an order.”

Q laughs. “You can’t give me orders, you aren’t my superior. If I recall, I give your orders.”

‘

“And yet you listen to me any way,” says Bond.

Q smiles. “Yes, yes I do.” He puts down the comm and yawns again, grabbing his coat. He’s about to turn his worklight off and leave when there’s another crackle on the comm. Bond’s voice comes through, saying something that sounds like: “Don’t get killed on the way to your apartment.”

The quartermaster laughs, and turns the lights off.

…..

There’s no one on the Tube. Q’s not surprised, it is one-thirty in the morning. At least he has some peace and quiet.

Now that he thinks about it, Q’s job description was rather vague. When he had first applied for the job, the description had stated something like: Director of Technology and Communications. Must be able to work long hours and use complicated technology. It hadn’t stated anything like Snarkmaster Wanted, or Insufferable Sarcastic Asshole Needed or anything like that. So then why did he do it? These days, being sarcastic or clever or any of snarky came more easily than the rest of his job.

But, he muses, only around Bond.

He was as kind and polite around M as with Eve, and even with the other agents he was more reserved and professional. It just seemed that around James Bond, some part of him he didn’t even know existed came out to play, and he’s not sure why.

But did there really have to be a reason? Suddenly, his eyes feel very damp, and he scrubs at them with the back of his sleeve.

****  
  


……..

Q’s been feeling melancholy lately. It certainly wasn’t because Bond had been back from his last mission nearly three weeks and hadn’t visited. Definately not.

Okay, Q’s never been very good at denial.

He can’t help but wonder what he’s done wrong. He’s seen the agent around MI6, multiple times, in fact, but 007 was always very careful never to meet his eye, always conveniently looking the other direction whenever Q walked by.  At first, Q had thought that Bond might be guilty about not bringing equipment back or something, but soon the days had stretched into weeks.

And of course 007 doesn’t feel guilty. He’s James Bond.

Q decides to take a sick day one Tuesday, because suddenly his work is becoming claustrophobic, and he feels very trapped. He brings this fact up to M when requesting a day off, and M only stares at him quizzically. “Why are you taking a sick day, Q?” he asks. “You don’t seem sick, and you’ve always loved your work.”

Q shrugs, a miserable tilt of his shoulder. M raises an eyebrow. “It’s because of Bond, isn’t it?”

Q is very quick to deny, with many quickly-spoken sentences, but M cuts him off. “I’m not stupid. We all see it. You like him. You just don’t see that he likes you.”

Q shrugs again. “He’s James Bond, why would he like me?”

M smiles. “Because you’re Landric Quillery Holmes, that’s why.”

After Q leaves that night, he’s not sure what to feel. A larger part of him than not wants to sit on his couch and cry, maybe call Eve over if he’s lucky. There’s another part of him that wants to go to Tesco and buy ice cream. And then there’s the other, tiny part of his mind that’s telling him not to think about 007 at all.

He doesn’t listen to that part of his mind.

****  
  


Upon returning home, his apartment suddenly feels very cosy, and he yawns before halfheartedly kicking off a loafer and collapsing onto his sofa. He’s tired, exhausted even, but his mind is racing too much, full of not entirely unwanted thoughts. There’s a bottle of expensive scotch in his cabinet, and he gets it out, cracking the top and not bothering to get a glass. He had been saving it for a special occasion, but, he reckons, self pity is as good as any.

He’s about ten swigs in when he gets the idea. There’s a piece of paper sitting on his coffee table, and he gets up to go and find a pen, feeling tipsy. Good. Tipsy is what he wants. No, scratch that. Getting full and completely slammed is what he wants, because fuck it, he doesn’t have to get up tomorrow.

****  
  


20 Reasons Why it is a Horrible Idea to Like James Bond

  1. He’s not good for you.

  2. He’s also straight.

  3. Probably.

  4. He screws like every woman he meets.

  5. He’s likely to get himself killed.

  6. Hopefully.

  7. Never mind.

  8. He likes getting drunk.

  9. He’s reckless.

  10. He’s also horribly suave.

  11. And popular.

  12. He’s hot.

  13. Like really.

  14. Wait, scratch that.

  15. What is this list turning into?

  16. It’s seeming more and more like reasons to like James Bond.

  17. I don’t like James Bond.

  18. I love him.

  19. I love him?

  20. Shit




Q means to write more, but the next few lines turn into an aggressive scribble fest, and suddenly his eyes are wet, and he doesn’t even try to dry them this time, he’s crying and he’s crying and he’s crying, and it feels as if the world will end. He curls up into a ball, drawing his feet up underneath him, and he’s crying, sobbing, and he doesn't even know why.

Q doesn't register falling asleep, but the next thing that he realizes, he’s waking up and there’s banging on his door. He rolls over, mumbling something incoherent to whatever senseless git has come knocking, and closes his eyes once more. His head is pounding, like his brain is going to fly out of his skull, and then suddenly, there’s a BANGCRASHBANG and for a moment, Q thinks that his brain really is leaving.There’s a loud voice, and Q opens his eyes to see a pair of icy blue eyes only inches from his, staring at him with a ferocity the quartermaster didn’t think anyone could humanely possess.

He’s so startled that he falls off the couch, hitting his knee on the coffee table on the way down. He’s surprised to hear breathless laughter from the person standing above him. He shakes his head to clear his vision, and suddenly it’s Bond, standing above him and laughing like there’s nothing funnier in the world.

Q’s very confused, until Bond clarifies: “I burst in here thinking there’s an emergency and you’re just blackout drunk!” He’s laughing again, breathless and loud. Q isn’t quite sure what to think. He decides that blinking like a deer in the headlights is the best option, but after a moment he climbs onto the sofa, tired eyes finally registering the empty scotch bottle on the table and a piece of paper. His eyes light on the paper, and he skims the first few lines. He has no memory of writing it whatsoever, but he must have. He continues reading, until he comes to the end and suddenly remembers everything.

He quickly crumples the paper and throws it behind him. Bond looks up, finally done laughing at last. “What are you doing here?” Q asks. Bond chuckles. “M said you had taken a sick day. I was worried. I called your cell seven times, and then your house phone another four. I thought you’d been kidnapped.”

“How did you get my cell phone number?” asks the quartermaster, smiling. He continues smiling, and it’s like the sun has lifted, until he remembers the list he wrote. He stops smiling, tormented.

Bond’s noticed his dismay. He sits down on the sofa, so near Q that their legs are touching. Q feels on fire. “What’s wrong?” Bond asks, and goddammit, there’s actual concern in his voice and Q’s so damn screwed. He considers a course of option, but his mouth runs before he can, saying: “Why do you care?”

Bond looks confused for a moment, before a small smile turns up the right side of his mouth higher than his left. Q quickly trains his eyes away. “Because you’re my friend,” James says, and Q laughs, a bitter sound. “What a nice friendship. It’s certainly not at all toxic.” He says the last word with only a bit more venom than he intended, and this time, Bond really does look confused. “What do you mean?” he asks.

Q sighs. “Well, it’s easy for you, you’re James Freaking Bond, everybody loves you. You just assume that by being perfect and suave that everyone can forgive you for your arrogance. You don’t follow orders, you don’t respect authority. And most of all, you left me for a month with no warning. You were in the building! I saw you! I even tried to talk to you and you blew me off and walked away! What did I do wrong?”

Bond answers quickly: “I was busy.”

“Bullshit,” Q responds. “You don’t do your paperwork anyway, you probably finished with mission protocol two days after you got back, much less three weeks!”

The next answer he gets is unexpected. Bond grabs Q’s chin and presses their mouths together. Q’s so shocked that he leans into it, and holds on, because isn't this everything he’s ever wanted?

The rational side of Q’s brain breaks in a moment later, and so Q separates. There is a bit of heady satisfaction there, to see Bond flustered, high color in his cheeks and mussed hair. He quirks an eyebrow. “You’re toxic,” says Q. “You’re a loaded gun and I don’t know when you’re going to blow.”

Bond smirks. “I read your list.”

Q flushes, and looks away. “You did?”

“I agree, it is a horrible idea to love me. And yet you do. But it’s a less risky plan, loving you. You’re more… safe. There’s just walls. Thick walls. Are you willing to let me break them down?”

Q doesn't hear the last part of Bond’s sentence, he’s latched on to two words. “You… love me?”  he asks.

Bond smiles. “For a computer genius, you are a daft idiot sometimes.”

Suddenly, the rational part of Q’s brain vanishes, and he starts melting. He’s not sure whether it’s the hangover or what, but he’s melting, and at that moment, he doesn't mind at all.


End file.
